


Memento

by mnemosyne



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:52:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/pseuds/mnemosyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver pays a visit to Anders in his clinic and they have a nice conversation about a mutual acquaintance. Set sometime in Act III.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memento

“He told me, you know.”

The tone was even, if not friendly. Anders frowned slightly, but remained, head bowed to his books, only the tension in his shoulders any evidence that he'd heard anything at all. He'd felt the presence of the Warden standing at his door before he'd walked in, had waited, eyes closed, as he'd made his way through Darktown. It had been agonising, but the mage refused to show it now.

“I know you can hear me, and sense me, so there's no use being difficult about it.”

Anders sighed. “I'd rather hoped he'd come himself.” He turned, leaned an elbow against his table. “Or am I not worth the bother these days?”

“Still with the completely helpful persecution complex then,” Carver remarked conversationally. He stepped into the room, a purposeful stride that Anders could not recognise from the angry young man he had known. The greys and blues of the Warden armour suited him, he thought, or perhaps it was the assurance that radiated off him in waves. Anders waved at a crate that Carver did not deign to sit on, instead leaning a hip against a side beam and regarding Anders with a furrowed brow. The mage sighed heavily, theatrically, and gazed back; too nonchalant, he knew, and from the look on Carver's face, the boy knew too. The number of subjects that would have brought Hawke's younger sibling all this way were few; markedly more however, he felt, than escape routes from the conversation.

“Fine, I'll bite. What did he tell you? Was it about the sock thing? Or the knitting? Or was it that one time we don't speak about when there may or may not have been a card game where there may or may not have been nudity and I may or may not have-”

“Maker's breath, fine. Just don't finish that sentence.” Carver looked away, and Anders tallied a victory point in his head. The boy huffed, let his head fall back against the wooden wall. “He told me about your _friend_. Before he was a voice in your head.”

“You've known all about Justice since we met,” Anders pointed out. Carver did not look at him.

“No,” he said, “I haven't. Not everything.” He paused. “Does my sister know? About Kristoff?”

“I honestly don't know.” The answer evidently surprised Carver, who looked back, tilting his head along the wall. Some little spark in the back of Anders' mind began to throb. “I told her, once. Some of it anyway,” Anders let his hand trail along the grain of his desk, prodded a splinter with a torn and bloody nail. “I'd tell her everything if she'd hear it.”

Carver snorted. “Do you think I'm that easy? You haven't tried, have you?”

A heartbeat. "I suppose not.”

Carver grimaced; Anders was sure that if the boy were a cat, he'd be growling angrily under his breath, flicking his tail back and forth. He watched, warily as Carver sorted through his thoughts. The throbbing in the back of his head was getting stronger, flashes of pain up towards his brow. He said nothing.

“Nathaniel says you were friends. All of you. And the bloody Hero, too.”

“'All' of us? Him, me, a couple of dwarfs -”

“And a Fade spirit. Who, by all accounts, smells a lot better now he's inhabiting you.”

Anders raised an eyebrow, allowed himself a small quirk in his lips. “By Andraste, young Carver, are you flirting with me?”

“You should be so lucky.” Carver swung himself from the wall, and Anders was struck, not for the first time, at how imposing his frame was, particularly when it was coming towards you. He could feel a too-familiar energy begin to unfold and he willed it down; _not now_ , he thought, and _not him_. Carver stopped, close, too close, but the hand Anders held out to hold him off just found itself resting on an armoured wrist. The two looked at each other in silence for several moments.

“I always said he was a friend, Carver,” Anders said, eventually. His fingers tightened around the gauntlet.

“I just,” Carver scrubbed the back of his free hand across his face. “I didn't think of him as a person. Not till Nate... Maker. I don't know. I thought you were an idiot. Power hungry. Weak.”

“And you don't now?”

“I still think you're an idiot.” Carver shrugged, and looked down. He stared at Anders' hand, but made no move to shake the mage away. “And dangerous. And a liar. A bloody-minded, stubborn, would-be martyr. And I'm still glad my sister isn't shagging you anymore.”

Anders winced, involuntarily.

“But he was a friend. Family.” Carver twisted his hand, wrapped his own gloved fingers around Anders' thin wrist. His touch is more gentle than Anders would have ever given him credit for, but if Carver noticed the surprise on his face, he did not mention it. “You do stupid things for friends.”

“Sometimes your enemies,” Anders replied.

“We're not enemies, Anders.”

“You know, I think that's the first time you've ever called me by my name.” Anders laughed, a small thin sound in the darkened clinic. “My dear Howe must have made quite the impression.”

Carver shrugged, and an awkward smile spread across his face. “I should go, mage.”

As stepped back, Anders' hand fell back into his lap, fingers flexing. Halfway in the doorway, Carver paused, digging into a pouch at his side. “Wait. He gave me something for you.”

Anders caught the item thrown, a threadbare red collar and a tiny bell, and just for a moment, longing shrouded him, caused his breath to catch in his chest. He shook the bell, closing his eyes to hear the soft, familiar sound. Carver already had his hand on the stair railing by the time he opened them again.

“Does this make us friends now?” Anders called after the retreating figure. His fingers drummed heavily on the table, the bell hooked on his thumb tinkling with every movement.

He was not even slightly surprised when Carver did not acknowledge him at all.


End file.
